All Hallows Eve
by Vytina
Summary: Everyone knows of the ghostly tales and figures that haunt Halloween night...except for that of one. And it's a ghost who always gets what he wants.


**A/N: Even while on a writing vacation, I simply couldn't miss my favorite holiday. More importantly, I couldn't dream of not posting a Halloween-themed story for my beloved Jonathan Crane and his lady of the evening, Iris DeLaine. Inspired by my love of the childhood classic tune, "The Headless Horseman", Iris and Jonathan celebrate their favorite evening in the only way they know how. Please enjoy and review!**

**Title: All Hallows Eve**

**Summary: Everyone knows the of the ghostly tales and figures that haunt Halloween night...except for that of one. And it's a ghost who _always_ gets what he wants.**

**Character Pairing: Jonathan Crane/The Scarecrow x Iris DeLaine (OC)**

**Rating: T for some suggestive content.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman the Animated Series or any related characters. I own only my idea for this story and my devious little diva, Iris. **

**HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE!**

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><p>Gotham nights thrum with life on any given occasion, but it is during select days of the year that the city particularly buzzes with excitement. The traditional holidays are always cause for enthusiasm, but it is Halloween when the city truly engages in all manner of festivities, some of them more acceptable than others. It is a cause for costumed celebration among old and young, rich and poor alike. Laughter rings amidst the adults over flavored drinks; the children giggle while digging their chubby fingers down into pumpkins, carving into the thick orange flesh and gutting it of its sticky and stringy interior. Later, they will collect the seeds and implore their parents to season and bake them in the oven for a late-night treat. For now, they happily indulge themselves on cookies coated with orange-and-black icing, some bearing the face of a jack-o-lantern, others carrying the image of a black cat or shapeless ghost.<p>

Within the safety of their homes, Gotham's citizens can merrily engage in their festivities without a care in the world. But the children are warned to remain indoors as the hour grows late and the sky dark. For about the midnight hour, they are told in hushed whispers, the ghosts and spirited cretins get together for their nightly acts of mischief and mayhem. They creep forward out of the shadows without a word of warning, and with their spindly fingers they'll snatch a child clean away, and they shall never be seen again.

The children hear such tales with wide eyes and cast a wary look out to the shadows just beyond their protected windows and living rooms, just imagining the quivering shadows cast by a nearby tree to be a witch or demon, just waiting for a little body to snatch up for their own. But that is outside, and the children are inside. They are safe and protected from such terrible things as evil apparitions and wicked beings of the night. They will instead look over their spoils from their trick-or-treat expeditions, eagerly counting out their treats and sharing them amongst one another. Soon enough, the frightful tales of Halloween night are almost forgotten.

Almost.

There is one tale in particular that intrigues children, distracting even the most devoted from their candies and treats. They gather around a single figure sitting by the window, pale and slender in build with sharply elegant features that catch the shadows cast out by the fireplace. Her dark hair falls loose around her neck and shoulders in soft waves, a veil drawn over the right side of her face for reasons unknown to her young audience. A casual comment about this being "the night" has attracted their attention and brought them to sit at her feet with curious eyes and imploring whispers for her to explain such a strange statement. For a moment she remains silent, calmly smoothing the red silk of her skirt for a long moment. Finally, she lifts her eyes back to the eager gathering with a calm smile on her lips.

"Tell me," she murmurs with a strange glint in her eyes, "what do you all know of the tales of Halloween night?"

They answer her question in a multitude of replies offered by eager young mouths. They relay the tales of ghosts and horned devils, devilish phantoms and apparitions stripped of their skin. They speak of vindictive poltergeists who linger in the darkness and wreck havoc throughout an unsuspecting household, limbless creatures that slink and slither beneath a child's bed and lie in wait, and of the wicked lost souls who steal within a person's dreams and turn them into nightmares. Such terrible tales, they say, such terrible tales of terrible creatures...is this the night for them to come out?

"Indeed," she nods with a strange calm, "tonight, about the midnight hour, the ghosts and banshees, and their friends, the phantoms and devils, get together for a nightly feast...a jamboree, if you will. In fact," she adds with a nod to the cracked window beside her, "if you listen carefully, you can hear their fiendish glee lingering upon the winds."

Eager little beings tumble over one another in a haste to press themselves close to the window and listen. They listen with seeking ears to every passing gust of wind. Is that the rustling of leaves on the trees, or the bone-cracking cackle of a witch? Is that the wind through a tunnel's gaping passage, or the howl of a flesh-devouring werewolf? Is that the shift of a curtain in the gust or the forthcoming flap of a bat hungering for young blood? Such doubt and curiosity linger upon the small sea of faces as they turn back to the young woman seated beside them, her lips upturned in a strange little smile.

"Yes," she murmurs, "the ghosts and witches and their ilk are bad, most assuredly. And your parents do well to warn you of their presence on this night. But there is one of whom you have not spoken...the worst of the worst who rides the shadows of this night. The worst he is...because he's the one that's cursed."

Their ears are all for her words just as their eyes are all for her face, watching with terrified intrigue at the low reverence offered with her words. This being of which she speaks..._pray, __tell __us __his __name!_

The smile only grows as she leans forward to offer the name in little but a whisper: "Why, the Headless Horseman of course."

Eyes widen and little hearts skip a necessary beat, but every mouth begs for the story to continue. This is one fearsome being of the night of which they were not aware, and they simply must know the tale. Their young curiosities must be satisfied with knowledge of every legend of this night, and as she offers that strange smile for their troubles, they know their thirst for knowledge will soon be quenched. They are too young to consider the consequences or the price of such understanding.

"You can see him riding across the land for miles around," she continues, "posture tall and proud atop his stallion, a creature black as salt with eyes that gleam red in the moonlight. A horse fit only for his rider, one who rides upon the shadows and beneath the moon, his very presence both repelling and inviting darkness to follow on his heels. But there is one more thing that distinguishes him from the rest: he is the only one of the lot to hold his head not upon his shoulders...but in his hand."

The gathered shiver slightly at the very thought of a head carried in the palm of its owner's hand, not set upon his shoulders as it should be. "And when the others take one look at him," she continues solemnly, "they only groan and promptly take to the shadowed roads, leaving him behind. It is always this way, you see...he has always been spurned from his ghostly companions."

_Why_, comes the chorus surrounding her feet. She only shrugs and shakes her head, "Oh, please don't ask why...no one has ever known the reason—and they've certainly never been foolish enough to ask. All that anyone knows for certain is that the Horseman does not take rejection well. For as long as he has ridden these haunted hills, he's sworn to prove his worth to the others, and he'll never see fit to pass on from this world until he holds true to his word."

A spurned spirit seeking vengeance for rejection...this is truly a phantom creature to be feared. The children nod to themselves and edge ever closer to a silk skirt with pleading eyes—but why must he ride this night of all other nights? Why must he haunt the shadows _tonight_ of all nights? Surely he can find another night more suited for these purposes?

She shakes her head again, "No, it must be _this __night_, for he knows he will have a great many people from whom to select that which he seeks."

Her words are cryptic and utterly irresistible for minds plagued by the curse of curiosity. They need offer only a brief plea for her to continue before she complies, that smile still set in place. "Why, a head, of course."

_A __head?_ A horrified chorus responds to her words, startled at the very thought. What use does he have for a head? Surely his own would suffice, they think to themselves, yet they do not speak the words, preferring to wait for her answer.

"Certainly," again she nods, "You see, he has grown all-too weary of his flaming skull after carrying it many a long century, and it's quite time for him to make a swap." her body leans down toward the small gathering with a gleam in her eyes that catches firelight in its web and sparks blue depths to life. "And so he rides one night—_this __night__—_each year, so that he may find a new head more to his liking. He isn't even that particular about his prize, really—little, big, bald or with hair of all and every color...it does not matter, just so long as he can claim it for his own."

The children shift nervously; a few quickly lift their hands to clutch protectively at their hair, as though it would protect them from the swing of a sword or the seeking grasp of ghostly hands. The smile only lifts, a sinister curl playing at the corners of her dark-painted lips. Again, she leans down to bring her whispers closer to their ears. Even now they will still listen to her, if for no other reason than to hear the ending of this terrible tale. Even the worst of stories must be told through till the end.

"So," she murmurs, "be sure to close the windows and lock the doors, and be extra careful...or else you can be sure that he'll get yours. And don't even think for a moment that he'll hesitate a bit. The moment he has you, he'll chop your head right off...and you'll never see him coming."

The winds herald her words, and without warning the windows are thrown open with a wild gust that extinguishes each and every candle scattered throughout the decorated room. But the wicked apparitions of this night are not content until all light has been erased from the room, and shortly thereafter the lights begin to flicker wildly in their bulbs as though cowering under the looming hand of a phantom presence. Small heads turn frantically to examine their surroundings with concern. Has their curiosity come at an even greater cost than previously imagined? Has the sought-after tale riled the Horseman and brought him in from the darkness to invade the previous comfort and protected sanctuary of the home? What terrible horror have they brought into their midst?

The home is suddenly plunged in darkness, with only the fleeting glimpse of moonlight filtering in through the billowing curtains. The children huddle together, seeking out blindly for the hem of their storyteller's dress, the soft touch of silk, the solid form of a clothed limb, a gentle hand extended to ease their distress. But they find nothing, only the cushioned window seat left without a body seated upon it. The seat is still warm, but she is gone without a trace or a whisper left in her wake. Gone, as if spirited away into the darkness.

The winds rush forward with a new found vengeance, snapping the windows harshly against the adjacent walls and throwing the curtains about with grating whispers of fabric against glass panes. And then, expelling from the shadows themselves, a loud and bone-chilling scream of laughter resonating throughout the entire room, perhaps even throughout the house itself, as though the phantom were right within their midst. Perhaps within the sheer darkness...he is.

The room is suddenly flooded once more in light, and the children's fears have been confirmed: their elder companion is gone, lost to the vengeful phantom of the cursed eve. They flee the room with screams for their parents, crying out that the Horseman has finally found a victim to sate his desires.

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><p>Spindly arms clothed in crimson rags wind around her waist and draw her firmly against a thin chest, skeletal in build with only a thin encasement of warm skin and tight muscle to keep this body within the realm of the living and the walking dead. The face leering at her could easily belong to a wicked phantom, with pitless black eyes and a lipless mouth stitched out upon burlap features. On any other night, she would be content with this face, but tonight is a special night, and there is another face she wishes to see. With an undeterred motion, she removes the mask to reveal a face of flesh and blood, with dark eyes and pale skin framed by a wild lick of fire-red hair. God, how she has missed this face.<p>

Iris smiles broadly as she slides both hands up his thin chest and curls them around the back of his neck, "Marvelous performance as always, my dear Horseman." she croons, playing with the thin hair against her fingers, "I do believe it was even better than our last one."

"I could say the same of your attire, my beloved," Jonathan replied, running a heated gaze down the length of her body, lingering shamelessly upon the soft swells of her breasts peeking out from the black trim of her bodice. Every drawn breath brings them up most appealingly, and he barely restrains the urge to lick his lips. "You spoil me so with this delectable sight."

Her brow lifts playfully, "Are you referring to my dress, or my chest?"

"Both," he answers, "perhaps one more than the other, but I shall confess to nothing."

She laughs softly and brushes her lips against his cheek. "I have been greatly anticipating your arrival tonight...I almost thought you weren't coming."

"I had momentary fears that I would not find you present should I arrive."

Her eyes widen slightly, "And break our tradition? Jonathan, you offend me." she wasn't pouting quite yet, but her lower lip did take on an appealing little protrusion. "This is our most time-honored holiday celebration...how could you ever think I would not be here?"

"A brief lapse in judgment." He smiles with a light tap of the finger to her nose, almost a condescending gesture if not for the light drag he then makes from her nose down to her lips, tracing along the delicate seam with a hungry gleam in his eyes. "I trust you'll forgive me?"

Her dark brow arches slowly, her eyes matching the smoldering look found within his depths. "Perhaps if you could...persuade me?"

The fingers of his left hand suddenly appear before her eyes, curled in a loose fist for a moment before unraveling and allowing the concealed treasure within to dangle down. Her lips break into a broad smile as a soft and gleeful cry escapes, fingers extending to lightly brush along the presented item. His free hand stops her from any further action, bending his wrist downward and twirling a finger in a silent command.

"Oh, Jonathan..." she sighs, obediently turning and drawing her hair away to allow his hands around her throat and set the silver chain in place. The gleaming rubies and opals attached fall just above the valley of her breasts, cool and pleasantly light. "It's beautiful, my love...thank you."

He keeps her in place with his hands, and though she cannot see his face, she feels the smile pressed against her temple. "How could I offer anything less to the birthday girl?" he purrs, tracing gloved fingers along her collarbone before dipping down to the offered curves of her bosum. She shivers slightly and brings a broader edge to his smile. "Especially when she has pleased me so greatly? I do believe that was the best telling you've done in three years. You do the Horseman great flattery with your descriptions."

Iris smiles over her shoulder, eyes dancing with a fire he knows all too well. "If I'd had my way I would have thrown a few additional details in the mix, but I'm afraid they would have distracted me too much."

"Oh?" he offers an innocent tone when his expression is anything but, "What sort of details...?"

"You're fishing, you vain creature." she taps him under the chin before twirling swiftly in his arms and wrapping both arms around his neck. "But perhaps I might be persuaded to offer a visual demonstration of these details...that is, if it wouldn't offend you."

The look on his face is utterly devoid of any objection to her proposal, and he wasn't inclined to pretend otherwise. A hand slips around to cup the back of her neck and bring her ever closer. "I imagine I could think of a few ways to persuade you..."

"I sincerely hope so." she offers the last word as nothing more than a breathed whisper before he claims those soft lips with his. The blood within both veins has already been smoldering; now it is inflamed with the embrace and all that will be exchanged before the night has passed. His hands press her against the wall, disinclined to mess with beds and such when there is a perfectly able structure that lies closer and can just as easily be used for his purposes. His mouth leaves her lips for the pale column of her throat, leaving firm and desperate kisses upon the skin. Her moans and sighs are sweet preludes for the music that will soon escape her throat when he has rid her of pride (and clothes) and left only the hungry and lustful vixen.

Iris curls her fingers in his hair, tilting her lover's head ever so slightly to gain access to his ear. Tonight she has no patience for his teasing, and she knows precisely the right thing to offer that will strip away any desire he has to keep her pleasure at bay, but instead leave him as desperate and frantic for her body as she is for his.

"_When __the __spooks __have __a __midnight __jamboree , __they __break __it __up __with __fiendish __glee._" Her voice is a hypnotic and teasing lull against his ears; the slight hitch in his breath tells her that she is already successful, but if one is going to do something...she might as well do it all the way and reap the numerous rewards to follow. The urgency in his touch was an unspoken request for more, and she was always happy to provide, especially when she was offering this particular song.

"_Ghosts __are __bad, __but __the __one __that's __cursed __is __the __Headless __Horseman_..." a crook of a smile curls her lips as she relishes the truth of her song, _"__...he'll __always __be __the __worst._"


End file.
